


What Was Found and Lost Behind

by b_ofdale



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-War, Father-Daughter Relationship, Happy Ending, M/M, Reunions, The Hobbit Big Bang, featuring Journal Entries, set in the 30s
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-09
Updated: 2017-06-09
Packaged: 2018-11-03 07:13:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10962315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/b_ofdale/pseuds/b_ofdale
Summary: Bard's been followed by ghosts all his life. When he and his family move to London, he doesn't expect one of those ghosts to come back from the dead—nor to be faced with his past, long concealed in a forgotten, old journal.





	What Was Found and Lost Behind

**Author's Note:**

> Finally! This is my second time participating in the Hobbit Big Bang, and once again I had an amazing time. It was a lot of work, a lot of time, but definitely worth it. Now, I can only hope it'll be worth _your_ time! 
> 
> Huge, huge thanks go to [Iza](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Piyo13/) who, as always, is an amazing beta! <3
> 
> Of course, thank you to the organizers, and finally, the amazing artists who worked on this story as well!
> 
> [homeiswheretheheartsare](http://homeiswheretheheartsare.tumblr.com) \- [[x](http://homeiswheretheheartsare.tumblr.com/post/161728423340/hobbit-big-bang-art-for-evanslukes-what-was)]  
> [shipsicle](http://shipsicle.tumblr.com) \- [[x](https://shipsicle.tumblr.com/post/161631791280/hobbit-big-bang-art-for-barduil-evanslukes)]
> 
> Enjoy!

> _My name is Bard._
> 
> _Bard Bowman._
> 
> _I’m twenty-six. I’m not sure why I’m writing this, but Mira told me it would do me good, so I bought a journal, and picked up a pen. I’m sitting at my desk. It’s cold outside and my leg hurts, but Sigrid is laughing in the next room. I’m not sure where to start._
> 
> _Mira suggested this idea. She said if I couldn’t talk to anyone but her, I should talk to a journal. A journal can’t answer, and so, it cannot judge, nor pity. I thought I could do with that._
> 
> _Like many, I was a soldier. Sometimes I feel like war is still raging, except that no one but me can see it. I didn’t face it alone, though—I had Thranduil. I didn’t have anyone but myself to lose, until I met him._

  


~•§•~  


Not only the children are nervous, on September 1st, 1937, as Bard puts lunch boxes in their bags and helps them strap the bags to their shoulders. Bard has a busy day ahead of him as well; this afternoon he’ll give his first painting lesson in London, before picking Bain and Tilda up from school. It’s been a month now since they’ve moved to the capital, Bard having been offered a job he couldn’t refuse.

He knows well that second chances aren’t so easily given. 

Bard kisses the two of them on the forehead, and smiles back to Sigrid, who takes her siblings’ hands and leads them out the door. 

There’s not a sound when it closes after them.

Instantly, it feels strange to not have his children at home with him after a month of constant laughter in their small apartment. 

He cleans up the table covered in breadcrumbs and jars of jam, and puts out some food for their cat who, he is sure of it, must be sleeping on his bed. The cat still comes as soon as the bowl is on the floor, though, all purrs and white fur left on Bard’s pants. 

Bard looks around, looking for anything he can do before getting his material ready for the afternoon’s class. The apartment is just large enough for the four of them; Sigrid and Tilda share a room, Bard and Bain another. He considers saving enough money to afford something bigger someday, give each of his children their own room, even if it means he has to give up his for a couch in the living room. 

It’s small, but it’s also warm, comfortable, and welcoming. Bard misses their old home, a small house that he couldn’t afford anymore, nor allow himself to keep on taking care of, but he is happy with what they have now. After a month, it already feels like home; the cat sleeps everywhere, Tilda’s toys are scattered all over the couch and the low table, Sigrid’s drawing pad is open on the kitchen table. And the apartment opens onto a small, quiet park where the children love to play. There are no stairs, making the access easy, and the restaurant they live next to smells heavenly. 

It may be small, but if ever the occasion to move somewhere more fit for four people were to arise, Bard thinks he would nonetheless be sad to leave. But perhaps they won’t have to; he isn’t particularly looking forward to it, but in two years Sigrid may be gone, and he could leave Bain his room. He wouldn’t mind. 

He really is starting to like it here. 

The school is a mere few minutes away, and so Bard doesn’t rush, glad he doesn’t have to take an hour off of his schedule just to get there in time. 

He’s been told he’ll teach teenagers Sigrid’s age at the school they attend now. It’s a good school, and Bard can still hardly believe his paintings would ever have allowed him to put his children in such a good place. 

The afternoon comes faster than he’d expected.

Bard leaves the apartment, a bag over his shoulder and his cane in his right hand. He’s never been parted from one since he returned to England, not long after the war ended. His ability to move freely was one of the many things it had taken. 

At the corner of the street is the school, proud and high, and Bard, having visited before, easily finds his way to his classroom. He sets down his material, nervousness crawling under his skin. He’s never taught anyone but Sigrid before, has never seen himself as an example. But paintings don’t pay the rent, and he loves his craft enough to wish to share it with young people. 

He tones down his worry by remembering Sigrid’s words, the night before.

“You’re a good teacher, Da,” she’d said. “They’ll love you.” 

“I don’t want them to love me,” Bard had answered. “I want them to love what I’ll help them make.”

Sigrid had laughed, and smiled. She looks a lot like her mother, when she does that. “They will, you’ll see. You make people care.”

That had made Bard smile in return. He knew his worth, but sometimes he forgot, and it felt good to be reminded. He’d wrapped himself with her words, and he’d felt ready for what tomorrow would bring. 

Bard is sitting at the teacher’s desk when the bell rings. He starts, nails digging into his palm, heart beating just a little faster. The ten seconds it lasts feel like hours, but when it’s over the chatter of students takes its place, and, one by one, two by two, or in groups, teenagers enter his classroom.

With a hand on the desk to steady himself, Bard stands to greet them. He’s glad to see that all his students seem enthusiastic to be there; Bard’s class being an elective, they wouldn’t be here if they didn’t want to. 

“Hello, sir,” they say.

“Welcome,” he says back, and the words leave his mouth before he can stop them, “I’ll try to make it less boring than your other classes—shouldn’t be too hard.”

Laughter breaks through the class. He recognizes one of them. 

Bard smiles upon seeing Sigrid sitting at one of the desks. Of course she chose to take his class without telling him. Talking to her in the next seat is a boy, long silvery hair like Bard has never seen before, and bright blue eyes. There’s something familiar about him, but all Bard can think of is that he is happy Sigrid has already made a friend.

The class starts. He insists on calling everyone by their first name, and they seem to like it. 

Bard is clumsy at first, but then he gets the hang of things. He finds it easy, like it was when he first taught Sigrid, or when he sits before his own canvas and tells himself the story he’s going to paint. 

Some have talent, others’ is just waiting to be discovered, and some have little but do not care; they try and enjoy the class, and it is all Bard can hope for. He is certain that in time, all will do great things.

In the blink of an eye, it’s over. Students leave the room, wishing him a good evening. They sound eager to come back for the next class, though their talks are already far from the drawings they’ve started. They’re young and carefree, their minds jumping from place to place like a cat that gets distracted from his ball of wool by a passing bird.

Then there’s not a sound, and Sigrid stands by the desk, drawings collected in her arms. 

“Great lesson, _Bard.”_

“I’m counting the days until you call me _Da_ in front of the class,” Bard says.

Sigrid scoffs. “Never gonna happen.”

Putting his bag over his shoulder, Bard laughs as he stands. He closes his arm around Sigrid’s shoulder, and like this they exit the room, Sigrid telling him all about her first day. Bard listens, his lips forming a smile; there’s no greater joy than feeling his daughter’s positivity. 

On the other side of the road, parents are collecting their youngest children from the elementary building of the school.

Bard notices someone crossing the crowd at a fast pace. It makes Bard stop. He catches Sigrid mouthing his name from the corner of his eye, but doesn’t hear her.

It’s like a hit to his chest, and Bard thinks he’s going to fall. He knows that face, that profile. For a time, it was all he ever wished to see.

He hears himself say, barely more than a whisper, “Thranduil?” 

The man is too far away to hear. He’s still moving, away and away. Bard can only see the back of his head now. Bard shuts his eyes close, inhaling sharply. 

He must have been wrong.

“Da, are you alright?” Sigrid asks. Her hand is soft on Bard’s arm, like a silent reassurance that he can hold on to her if he needs to. “Do you want to sit?”

Bard grips his cane. At times he feels he wouldn’t be able to stand for long without it, and now is one of those moments. He shakes his head, opens his eyes again. “No, it’s alright,” he says. “I thought I saw someone I used to know.”

Sigrid looks where he was looking, her brow furrowed in a light, curious way. “Like a ghost?” she asks, gently, looking back at him. 

Bard nods. He’d thought about saying that. _I saw a ghost._ It was, in some way. He hadn’t, simply because he didn’t like the sound of it. There are enough ghosts around him as it is. 

He feels old, when she speaks to him like that, though she means well. In truth, Bard doesn’t mind it; she’s a kind but strong soul, and he’s proud to see it in her, even when she worries. She shouldn’t, but Bard knows she isn’t enough of a child anymore to be told to leave worrying to him and go back to her games. 

Bard looks back to where he thought he saw Thranduil. If he was ever there, he’s gone now, either vanished or taken away by the crowd. 

He closes his hand over Sigrid’s, and, eyes darting over the children he finds Bain and Tilda, and says, “There they are. Let’s go home.”

Bard dreams of Thranduil, that night.

  


~•§•~  


> _I was sent to Belgium not long after I turned nineteen. I’d heard about what war was like overseas, from people who knew wounded soldiers sent back home. I was terrified. I was away from my country, scared, and alone. I wanted to turn back time, and never sign my name on that damn piece of paper already filled with other names, names that were sooner or later to be put on gravestones, or at the end of hospital beds._
> 
> _That’s where I met Thranduil. He’d been amongst the first to be sent overseas once the war had started, running away from his family name. When I first saw him, I remember thinking he was like a sad, lonely diamond amongst sad, lonely rocks._
> 
> _Thranduil didn’t like lying. He wasn’t scared of telling things as they were. He didn’t try to make me believe everything would be alright, that I’d go home someday and it’d be like nothing ever happened. It hurt me at first, because I wanted to be reassured. I wanted to be told I’d be fine. I thought he was cruel for not telling me what I wanted to hear. But after my first crossing of no man’s land, I was glad he hadn’t pretended._
> 
> _After that, I don’t know how or why we took a liking to each other, but we did. Somehow, we always managed to stay together._
> 
> _I told him once that I loved to paint—I didn’t think myself any good at it, but I loved it. And he told me he loved to write. It’s funny now, to think that out of the two of us, I’m the one writing._
> 
> _He never had a chance to. Thranduil died. I thought I should say it._

  


~•§•~  


“What do you think of my drawing, Da?”

Bard looks away from the papers he’s been going through. Tilda stands by the chair, holding up a drawing under her chin.

“It’s you, and Eliott,” she says, pointing at both of the characters. “Do you think I’m an artist?”

The corners of Bard’s lips turn upward. “You are, darling,” he says. Tilda grins. “You should keep going.”

“I will!” Tilda exclaims, putting the drawing flat on the surface of the table. She then looks at him, something serious about her expression, brows furrowed. “You look a little sad,” she says. “It’s Sunday. No one’s sad on Sundays.”

“I’m not sad anymore,” Bard replies, “thanks to you.”

Tilda beams, swaying on her feet. It’s not a lie; he’ll be sad again, but right now he isn’t. He doesn’t think he can ever be sad, when his children are smiling. It’s too heartwarming a sight. 

Bard is still shaken by that first day of school. He’s convinced his mind and his eyes worked together to trick him, that Thranduil was never there, for he cannot be. They had never done that before, and Bard hasn’t thought about Thranduil deep and hard in a while; then he'd seen the ghost, and now Thranduil is constantly on his mind. 

Bard knows grief. He’s known her since he was a child, and sometimes he feels like she’s been with him his whole life. Yet there’s been no grief greater than Mira’s and Thranduil’s. He’s gotten over it as best he could by keeping on living, but it keeps lurking, and once in a while comes a time when it strikes to cut deep. 

Mira’s death had been an unfair, but predictable thing. In a way, Thranduil’s had been, too; but there had been guilt and horror to go with it, and they’d been young, and it’d been there the longest. Perhaps that was why it’d always hurt most.

Bard shakes his head, like he’d been talking to himself. On the chair next to his, Tilda had sat down, still grinning as she keeps on drawing. He reaches out to her, caresses her hair. She turns to take his hand and stick it between her shoulder and cheek, still holding it.

“I love you, Da,” she says. She often does, when she feels like it. Bard never takes it for granted.

“I love you too,” he replies, softly. He hopes she feels how much he means it. 

Bard notices then that Sigrid is watching, just as Bain enters the room to sit on the couch with a book. She’s baking a pie, as she enjoys doing on the weekends. Bard leaves a kiss on Tilda’s forehead before joining her. 

“Do you want any help?” Bard knows she doesn’t _need_ any, but he likes to share with his children what they like to do, if they wish him to. 

In answer she puts an apple before him, and hands him a knife. He lays his cane against the wall, puts his weight on one leg, and gets to work, humming a song. The cat sits near the tap, wise eyes following their every movement, like he’s watching over them.

Later, the pie is in the oven, and Bard goes back to his papers. He’s checking his lesson plans through until Christmas. He gives two classes per week, to two different groups of students. He already knows most of their names; he’s always been good at that. 

The next day finds them getting ready for a second week of school. 

Before she leaves, Sigrid stops before the door. She turns back to face him, and watches Bard for a moment. 

“Da?” 

“Yes, darling?”

“Who was it, that you thought you saw the other day?”

“No one.”

“It couldn’t be no one.”

“What makes you say that?” Bard says, though he knows she’s already won.

“I’ve never seen you like that,” she says. Then, she repeats, “It couldn’t be no one.”

At last, Bard looks up at her. “Perhaps it wasn’t no one, then.”

“Will you tell me who?”

“Maybe someday.”

Sigrid smiles, a little sadly. “You keep so many secrets, Da.”

“Only because I don’t want them to become yours,” he says. Bard kisses her cheek, unaware he’ll tell her sooner than he thinks. “Not yet.”

  


~•§•~  


> _I was not made for war. I don’t think any of us were, but through those first months, I thought Thranduil was. He stood tall, and he was proud, and never afraid. That’s what I thought. I came to understand he was like the rest of us—he just managed not to show it. He hid everything so well it was like none of it was there. I heard people wonder whether he cared, because of how cold he seemed. I’m the only one who ever saw what his eyes held behind the façade._
> 
> _We talked a lot. I don’t know what made him want to talk with me, but I was fine with it. We became friends, and then came this feeling that there was more between us than we could comprehend. I never tried to understand, and neither did he. We had work to do, didn’t have the head for it. We took things as they were._
> 
> _We were never apart. Except once. In November, 1916, I was sent close to another city with a small unit. Two months later, I was back with Thranduil. He didn’t tell me himself, but our comrades said he’d sent a letter to his father, a man of great influence, who’d made sure we were together again._
> 
> _I knew that, by doing so, it was the first time he’d even let his father know he was alive._
> 
> _I argued with him about it. I told him he could have asked his father to get him out of there, not home, but at least somewhere safer. He was mad I would even consider it. He said his place was with us. He said he wasn’t a coward. I knew that in his shoes, I would have felt the same._
> 
> _But I still, more than anything, wanted him to make it out alive._

  


~•§•~  


Bard finds he loves teaching more than he could have imagined. He thinks that maybe this is what he was always meant to do. Over the years and despite his injury, he’s had more different jobs than he can count on the fingers of one hand; he’s done paperwork and plumbing and cashiering and agent officer work and everything that was sent his way. He painted on the side, not wishing to turn that into work, too.

He’d never considered teaching, until Sigrid convinced him to turn their shed into a little exposition of his paintings. It had been messy and the walls had been crowded with art, but somehow, Mr. Greyhame, the school’s headmaster, had found his way there. He’d loved what he’d seen, and had offered Bard a job. Bard hadn’t been able to refuse, not knowing this was all he’d been waiting for; something that mixed work and hobby, without turning hobby into work. 

Bard enjoys it so much the second week goes by in a blur, and Saturday’s here before he can even see it coming. He finds himself wishing he was already back in class. He’s taking a liking to the school and his students, who seem to like his lessons. If things go on this way, he hopes to never have to find another line of work again. 

Saturday morning is spent going through the sketches he’s brought back home, after he and Sigrid surprised Bain and Tilda with breakfast in bed. When they get up and bring back their plates, they come to look at the drawings with him, asking about the students who made them. Bard doesn’t know them well yet, but he knows all their names, now. 

That afternoon, Sigrid takes her siblings to the park, while Bard goes to the local market at the corner of the street, on the other side of it. There isn’t much to buy; just fish, and some vegetables. Perhaps a can of beans or two. 

He’s in line when he catches sight of him, too far to reach, too far to touch. 

It takes Bard a moment to realize he’s looking at Thranduil. 

But it’s him. 

It’s him. 

Older and scarred and different, but him. 

Bard’s first reaction is to think it cannot be. It’s a ghost again, or he’s dreaming, or his mind is tricking him once more. 

Frozen where he stands, Bard cannot tear his eyes away. He feels the wind brushing his skin. The familiar pain in his leg. His heart beating, _thud thud thud_ against his ribs.

It’s not a ghost, not a dream, not a trick. 

Thranduil’s there, breathing and talking. Light burn scars are scattered on the left side of his face, and his eye must be unseeing. Bard feels ill, not because of the sight, but because it makes sense. God, it makes sense. 

Saying he was less fair, less beautiful than he once was wouldn’t be true; somehow Thranduil has always been fair and beautiful to Bard, even through the exhaustion and desolation. But that was back then. Today, he’s different, beautiful in a whole new way. Scarred yes, but there are no lines of worry, nor pain, upon his face. No fear, no sorrow. He is a man in a kinder place, and even from afar, Bard can see it in each movement he makes, each step he takes.

Bard watches him hand out money for the fruits he’s bought, smile politely at the merchant, and leave to the next stall. 

Too shaken, Bard doesn’t think to act on the feelings raging inside him. 

By the time Bard has paid as well, Thranduil’s disappeared. 

Bard walks home as fast as he can, his hands gripping his cane and bag so hard they cannot even shake. 

When Bard closes the door behind himself, he lets the bag of groceries fall to his side. He cries, back against the door, as if the tears have been waiting to be home to fall, here where no one can see him. 

There’s a lot to take in, yet Bard breathes in deep, wipes the tears from his cheek. He forgets the groceries there by the door, going into his room, where he fumbles in the old desk’s drawers.

Soon enough, he finds the journal. Bard presses it against his mouth and closes his eyes, like he was afraid it might have been lost; few things he owns are as precious. He’s never been afraid of forgetting, ever since he’s written it. Everything he’s seen, everything he’s felt; it’s all in there, forever on paper.

There had been many things in there he wishes he’d forget, things that hadn’t been about Thranduil, about rare moments of carefree laughs with their comrades in the evening. When he wrote them down, all these years ago, it was like taking them out of his mind and sealing them away. He’s torn off those pages since then, opened the window, and let the wind take them.

Now Bard sits at his small desk, suddenly realizing just how much his leg hurts. He hasn’t been kind on it, trying to go faster than he should. But like always, he ignores it, and opens the journal. He looks for one of the last pages, presses his fingers over his eyes when he finds it.

Then, he starts drawing. 

When he’s done, Bard looks at his work for a long time. With the sun going down, he only turns away to light a lamp.

Later, Bard closes the journal, just for a second.

“I thought you’d never pick it up again.”

Bard starts, hand falling flat against the cover. 

Sigrid stands in the doorway, leaning against the doorframe. He can tell she hasn’t just arrived, but he hadn’t heard his children coming home. He can hear Bain and Tilda laughing in the living room. Sigrid looks worried, now that she’s seen his eyes. 

“I remember when I was little, sometimes at dinner, you excused yourself, left the table, and later I always found you writing at your desk,” she continues. “Ma left everything on the table because she knew you’d feel bad if she cleaned everything up herself.”

Sighing, Bard looks back to the journal. He lets his fingers linger over it.

“I’ve seen him again today,” he says. “But he was no ghost. He was really there. I, uhm—I had to—”

He’s not sure how to say it, so he opens the pages he’s drawn on. There is an old portrait on the left, and on the right he’s drawn the man he’s seen earlier. If Bard was certain then, he cannot feel even an ounce of doubt, now. 

In an instant Sigrid is crouching before him, hands on his knees. 

“Thranduil?” she asks. “It’s Thranduil, right?”

Bard stares at her. “I never told you his name.”

“I’d never seen that page,” Sigrid says. “I thought there was nothing more once the story was over.”

“You—you read it?”

“I asked if I could, once,” Sigrid says. Her voice is quieter than it has ever been so far. “You said I was too young, but if one day I wanted to, there weren’t any locks on your drawers.”

For a moment Bard finds himself speechless.

“That was so long ago,” Bard murmurs. “I’d forgotten.”

“Someday, I remembered about it, so I read it,” Sigrid continues, sitting next to him. “I didn’t know how to bring it up until now, so I didn’t say anything.” 

“I’m happy you’re telling me now, darling,” Bard says, and he smiles as he takes her hand and squeezes it. 

They’re silent for a short while, Bard lost in his thoughts.

“Do you want to talk?” 

“I don’t know.”

“Well, whenever you want to, I don’t mind listening.” 

She makes to stand, but Bard’s hand finds her wrist in a light grip. It’s not only about talking. It’s about telling her what she deserves to know, now that he feels ready for it; he’s sure she has questions she isn’t asking, and he wants to answer them. 

Silently, she sits back. She crosses her legs under her, and takes on her most serious expression. She’s only sixteen, but she’s wise beyond her years. She’ll understand.

“I loved him,” he says in a breath. “Is that alright?”

Sigrid studies him. “Of course. Why wouldn’t it be?”

Bard bites the inside of his cheek. He doesn’t find the words, but maybe he doesn’t have to say anything; he’d asked because he needed to, but they know. He takes another deep breath. 

“I had never been in love, when I met him,” Bard says. “I didn’t admit it was that kind of love that I’d felt, until I recognized it in the way I fell in love with your Ma.”

In her hands Sigrid has taken the journal. She listens as she looks at the drawings, something soft about her features. Bard can see his own hope through her. If she’s read the story, now she knows its ending really isn’t one.

Today or tomorrow, the story could or could not continue, and no one can tell how it will truly end.

Bard isn’t sure what he should or wants to do, other than that there are things he wishes to say.

So, he tells Sigrid about Thranduil. About himself, too. More than there is in the journal, more than he thought he had to say.

When he’s done, he reaches out to wipe the few, lonely tears that have fallen down her cheeks. 

“Hey, it’s alright,” he whispers. “I’m alright.”

“I know,” she says, the corner of her lip turning upwards. “Thank you.”

Sigrid embraces him, caring in her gestures. Bard holds her until she draws back, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear.

“Why did you never tell us about him?” she asks, more quietly now. “About how you felt?”

Bard ponders his words. His hand finds his neck, rubbing it, and he looks down. 

“Because I was scared you would believe I had never really loved Ma,” Bard says, quietly. “Because I’ve never stopped loving him.”

“Well, is it true?”

Bard looks up at her. “No, of course not.” He feels a tinge of fear at the thought they might believe that, even for one second. He’s loved Mira deep and strong; she and Thranduil—Bard thinks there’s no one he could love that way, more than he’s loved them. 

Sigrid smiles again. “I know it isn’t. We know. You shouldn’t worry.” 

Bard smiles back. He doesn’t know what he’s done to deserve such wonderful children. 

“How do you feel, now?” she asks. “Now that you know he’s out there.”

Bard sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know. I feel numb, I—I’m not sure I’m completely realizing yet.” 

“It’s okay, Da,” Sigrid says. She laughs, a little. “I’m not sure I’m realizing, either!”

This time, Bard laughs as well. It’s all quite impossible, isn’t it?

Sigrid stands, hands held together in front of her. She’s making that face that means she wants to ask something, but isn’t sure she can. The look Bard gives her is reassuring, and he sees in her eyes that it’s enough to make her take a decision.

“Can I read it again?” she asks, her voice assured and measured. 

Somehow, Bard has seen it coming. 

Though he hesitates, Bard nods, hands her the journal. He’ll never feel like she, or anyone, is ready, but she’s already read it anyway, already knows the story. He trusts her. 

She takes it with a smile, presses it over her chest as though it’s fragile. 

“Sigrid?” Bard asks as she makes to leave the room. 

“Yes, Da?”

“You know you can always talk to me too, right?”

She smiles. It’s like she never stops smiling. “I do, and when I’ll need to, I will.”

  


~•§•~  


> _I was shot through the leg, one day. The bullet went straight through me. I didn’t say anything. I was an idiot to think I could deal with it on my own, but I could never bring myself to regret it._
> 
> _Thranduil found out the next morning. He was mad—so were our comrades. I told him I didn’t want to be sent away. That if it was bad and I had to be sent home to be healed, perhaps they would not let me serve overseas again. Perhaps I would not see him again. Perhaps I’d never know what would happen to him. I said he was all I had. It was the first time I had said it. It was also the first time I saw him cry without trying to hide. He and a brother whose father was a doctor took care of me, and I pretended the pain didn’t bother me for the next few weeks. I never quite stopped limping after that, but I could walk and run and work. It wasn’t bad enough to have me sent home._
> 
> _I think that was my biggest fear. I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving him. I didn’t believe his father would have granted us a second chance, if one of us was sent somewhere else in need of soldiers. I was just a poor boy, stuck in a war I didn’t understand. I was nothing to him. Why would he help again, now that he knew nothing but that the end of the war would bring his son back to him? There were many reasons not to sleep at night, and this was one of them._
> 
> _I didn’t want to be alone. I didn’t want him to be alone, either. He was my anchor, and I was his. We loved the men of our unit. We would have died for them. But to Thranduil, I always came first. For a while I thought I wasn’t like him. That I cared as much for the others as I cared for him. I was lying to myself. He was more than a brother. No matter what I told myself, no matter how guilty it made me feel, how unfair to our companions it sounded, he’d always come first, too._
> 
> _I think, in the end, that’s what made us lose each other._
> 
> _It’s like family. You always want to save everyone, but sometimes you have to make a choice, and when you do, you know who you’re going to save, and who you’re gonna spend the rest of your life regretting leaving to bleed out in the dirt._

  


~•§•~  


Bain and Tilda run inside as soon as Bard opens the door, quickly taking off their shoes and their coats before disappearing down the corridor. Shaking his head, Bard hangs the coats before grabbing back the groceries the children have helped him pick. Tonight there will be mashed potatoes, creamy spinach and fish on their table.

When Bard enters the living room, he finds a young man sitting on the sofa next to Sigrid, nose buried in a book and brows furrowed in concentration. 

“Oh.” He hadn’t been expecting any guests. “Hello, Legolas.”

The young man starts, putting the book on the surface of the low table and turning his head toward Bard. His eyes are wide and blue. He’s in Bard’s class, and he’s a good student, always sitting with Sigrid and paying attention. 

“Hello, uh, Mr. Bowman, I mean, Bard,” Legolas says, standing up like the headmaster’s just entered the classroom. He strides to Bard to shake his hand.

Amused, Bard returns the greeting.

“Da, I’m sorry,” Sigrid interrupts, following Legolas to give him a quick hug. “We have to work together on a school project. I forgot to tell you.”

Bard waves off her worry before he takes off his own shoes. “It’s alright,” he says. “You get back to work, I’ll let you know when dinner is ready.”

The two teenagers go back to the sofa and get back to work, while Bard goes to check on Bain and Tilda. He finds them in the girls’ room, playing with dolls and wooden toys. 

He simply watches them for a moment, until they raise their heads and grin up at him. 

“You wanna play with us, Da?” they ask in unison. 

Bard laughs. “No, thank you. Dinner is waiting to be cooked,” he says. “You keep having fun.”

A pause, to adjust his grip on his cane and close his hand on the doorknob.

“Your sister and her friend are working—if you want to play in the living room later, you can,” he tells them. “Just pretend you’re spies, alright?”

They nod, beaming, and Bard closes the door with one last smile.

Sometimes he thinks life cannot possibly get better than this. There was a time he thought he wouldn’t be able to even brush such a good life, not even by the tips of his fingers. 

In the kitchen, Bard makes tea. He brings cups and biscuits to Sigrid and Legolas, who thank him before going back to work. Then he drinks his own cup, and when it’s emptied, Bard starts cooking, keeping an eye on the teenagers, so concentrated they don’t notice Bain and Tilda slipping under the low table until they start giggling. 

Sigrid kindly shoos them away, following them around the room and back to their bedroom, leaving Bard and Legolas alone.

On the floor and in her laughing wake, Tilda has let something fall with a _cling_ , making Bard roll his eyes fondly. 

Legolas picks up the medal from the floor. He looks amazed as he turns it between his fingers.

“Is this yours, sir?” he asks.

Bard stops what he’s doing, putting the peeled potato in the pot. Reluctantly, he replies, “Aye.” He knows what Legolas wants to ask, so he adds, “I don’t mind letting the little ones play with it.” 

Like others, the medal was awarded to him after the war. He didn’t want to accept any, feeling he hadn’t done anything worthy of them, but had nonetheless. Instead of letting them take the dust, Bard lets Bain and Tilda use them as rewards to their games. 

Legolas doesn’t seem to understand, but he keeps his thoughts to himself. He puts the medal on the table, looks at it a while longer, before looking up at Bard.

“My dad’s got some as well. He’s been to war, too,” Legolas says. “He’s a hero. He doesn’t like when I say that, but he is.”

Bard smiles, though it is a little sadly. Most children whose fathers came home from war see them as heroes. 

He’s thankful Sigrid knows better than to say so, for Bard doesn’t see himself as one, and though Bain knows his father was a soldier, he hasn’t heard about what Bard has been through yet, nor about the war itself—Bard deeming him too young—and that makes all the difference. 

“What’s your father doing, now?” 

“He’s a journalist,” Legolas proclaims proudly. “He writes for the biggest newspaper in England!”

“I’ve definitely never read anything from him, then,” Bard replies, going back to the dishes. 

Legolas laughs.

“He likes art. I think he’d like what you do.”

“Well, thank you. I’d be happy to meet him.”

“He’s coming to get me, actually.”

As Legolas says so, Sigrid comes back into the room. She sits back next to her friend, her eyes falling on the medal. She says nothing, but looks from Bard to Legolas curiously. 

“Legolas was telling me about his father,” he says. “A journalist.” 

Sigrid hums in answer. “We’re almost done,” she says. “Can Legolas stay for dinner?”

“Of course.”

“What, no,” Legolas exclaims. “I don’t want to impose—my dad will be here before it’s ready anyway.”

“Your loss.” Sigrid shrugs. “No one cooks fish like Da.”

 

As Legolas had foretold, not an hour passes until the bell rings. He’s already got everything ready to go, determined not to take more of the Bowmans’ time, though Bard doesn’t mind at all. 

“That must be him!” Legolas says, putting on his coat and his bag over his shoulder. Both Bard and Sigrid accompany him to the door. 

It’s Bard who opens it. He almost loses the grip on his cane, almost falls right there, but steadies himself just in time, feeling his breath being snatched from him. 

He hadn’t been expecting the man on his mat.

He’s tall, all long silver hair and faint scars. A bright, pale blue eye pierces through Bard. The other is fixed, unseeing, like Bard had guessed days earlier. Bard thinks he’s stopped breathing. He isn’t sure what’s happening, how this turn of events suddenly occurred. 

He hadn’t expected any of this.

He doesn’t expect the first word that comes out of the man’s mouth, either.

“Bard?”

It’s enough to make Bard’s eyes wet. He’s dreamed of hearing that voice saying his name again. It sounds just the same; there’s something older, wiser to it, but it is the same. 

Bard can only nod, somewhat weakly.

There had been no pain, no sorrow when Bard had last seen him in the street. Now it is all there, marked upon Thranduil’s face, brought up from deep inside him and into the light; it’s all sadness and grief and confusion. Bard knows what’s going on through his head. He’s thinking, _‘this can’t be, this isn’t real, here come the ghosts again.’_ Bard wants to tell him that it is, it is real and he is here, but he doesn’t speak. 

How could the words of a ghost convince a man he isn’t dreaming? 

Instead he waits, despite what he really wants to do.

His hands are clenched into fists by his sides, but all Bard wants to do is reach out; to grip and hold, like they did through those times when they had no one but each other. Yet he cannot, not here where they have no companions who understand, not here where there are so many years and so many words unsaid between them. 

Eventually Thranduil opens his mouth, only to close it again, in time with his eyes. He makes a short shake of his head, as though he is chasing away thoughts, or memories. 

“You’re dead,” he says.

Bard’s voice breaks in his throat before it can even come out. “No,” he utters. “No, I’m not.”

Thranduil shakes his head again. 

All the while, Legolas and Sigrid have been watching in silence. Bard catches Legolas’ eyes; they’re wide and confused. It’s like his mind is working fast to understand what is happening, but he has no clues to put together. Bard cannot see Sigrid, but he can picture her looking down and biting the inside of her cheek, like she is witnessing something she’s been waiting for, but isn’t sure she has any right to see.

In the same second it’s taken Bard to glance at Legolas, Thranduil turns away, and leaves. Bard takes one step in his direction, but stops. He knows better; today it will be useless. 

“Ada!” Legolas calls, before he mutters an apology and his goodbyes, and follows him. 

Bard doesn’t go after them. It hurts, but he understands. He doesn’t know how he’d have reacted if, unlike Thranduil, he hadn’t been able to see Thranduil from afar before finding themselves face to face.

Thranduil needs time. Bard feels he needs some more of it, too. 

“Are you going to look for him?” Sigrid murmurs. 

Bard sighs. “No,” he says, though a part of him regrets he has to, wishes he’d say yes. “He’ll come back.”

Sigrid looks worried, now. She puts her hand on his arm. He hadn’t noticed his fingers are shaking. He rarely does.

“How do you know?” she asks.

“That’s what he does.” He breathes in deep. He’s never been more sure of anything. “That’s what we do.”

  


~•§•~  


> _It was a truth we knew we shared, but we never spoke of it. We never knew how to put it into words._
> 
> _Our brothers didn’t care, because they didn’t know—we believed they had more important things to worry about than two of their comrades hiding their hand-holding under their coats at night, anyway. It was nothing. At least, we thought it was._
> 
> _What fools we were._
> 
> _We weren’t scared of dying—after a while, we got used to the idea. We figured dying was the most likely of scenarios when we were sent out of the trench to begin an assault. But we were scared of one of us losing his life, leaving the other behind, all alone in the mud, blood on his hands. We figured that if we were to die, it should be together._
> 
> _We weren’t foolish enough to believe being together out there would save us—but we had hope, we had each other, and that was enough to lift us up._
> 
> _Every time we were sent over the top, we somehow made it through, only bruised and cut, despite the fear numbing our minds._
> 
> _But God had other plans, and it didn’t always happen like that._

  


~•§•~  


The weekend passes, and Bard feels like each second is an eternity. He’s looking forward to the school day, eager to get a distraction from his busy thoughts, and perhaps answers from Legolas, though he won’t take them from him if Legolas doesn’t wish to share them.

There’s so much he wishes to ask. So much he wants to know, but it is through Thranduil’s mouth that he wants to hear it all.

To Legolas, he only wishes to ask, _‘Are you alright? Is your father, too? Can you tell him I will wait for him, for as long as he needs, be it months, be it years, though I have missed him very much?’_

When Legolas enters the class that day, he doesn't often meet Bard's eyes, but when he does, it’s with an awkward smile. He only talks with Sigrid in hushed tones, and Bard doesn’t ask them to stop; he understands there is much they have to share. 

Later, as they sit on the sofa, Sigrid tells him Legolas is shaken, though not just in a bad way; his father kept many secrets from him, never talked about the war, never talked about his mother, gone like Bard’s wife is, and that weekend much had to be said. Tears have been shed in long-awaited embraces, and it’s a lot to take in. 

By God, Bard aches for them both, too burdened by old and new grief alike to talk and find comfort in each other. He’s glad the truth breaking out allowed them to, somehow. 

Sigrid is gone to bed when Bard stares into the darkness and cries in silence, unable to put words on why, but deep down knowing the answer. The cat snuggles against him, and he falls asleep there, until in the early morning Tilda comes and wakes him, asking for comfort after a bad dream. 

The nights that follow feel long, but time passes quickly, and Bard isn’t surprised that it takes almost two weeks for Thranduil to reach out. It’s been more than thrice as long now since Bard has first caught glimpse of him. 

It’s Thursday, and he’s spent the afternoon at school, giving lesson to his second class and organizing his classroom afterwards.

He’s tired, and ready for home, and the bell ringing is the call to put his coat on his shoulders and close the door until tomorrow.

Thranduil’s waiting for him before he leaves the building. 

Bard’s breath catches in his throat as Thranduil walks towards him, his pace determined, but something wary about his eyes, though he won’t meet Bard’s longer than a mere second. 

Thranduil stops before him, close but too far to be at arm’s reach. 

“Find me tonight by the Peter Pan sculpture in Kensington Gardens,” Thranduil says. His hand grips tight the newspaper he’s holding. “Eleven.”

Leaving no time for Bard to fully take in the sight of him, he’s gone as fast as he’s come, disappearing amongst the remaining parents like he was nothing but an illusion. For a moment Bard wonders if he wasn’t just that. 

He goes home, processing what just happened, and only noticing then that the beating of his heart is just turning steady again. 

Sigrid knows something is up the moment he steps through the door. She sends him one of those looks that say _‘what happened?’_

He kisses Tilda and Bain hello in their room before going in the kitchen and making water boil. Sigrid finds him there, arms crossed over her chest and a line of worry on her forehead.

“He found me,” Bard tells her. “Kensington Gardens, eleven.”

Sigrid heaves out a sigh, clearly of relief. She gets closer to squeeze his hand. “You’re going to go, aren’t you?”

Bard smiles at her, cannot stop himself. “You know I will,” he replies. “How could I not?”

“I’ll wait for your return, then.”

“No,” Bard protests. “You have school tomorrow.”

“But, Da—”

Bard gives her his best serious dad look. She rolls her eyes, lets go of his hand to get cups. 

 

The time arrives faster than he’d thought it would. It leaves him feeling strange; he isn’t sure what to expect, what to hope for and what to fear. But he knows that whatever may come, it cannot be worse than what has passed already. 

He takes nothing with him to meet Thranduil; just his wallet and an umbrella, in case it starts to rain. 

For a while, Bard does nothing but stand and watch the statue. Then his eyes fall on the moon, and he cannot take them away. 

He breathes in, breathes out. 

The wind is fresh but kind against his face. 

Bard finds himself nervous as he ends up sitting on one of the benches. He stares at the statue, something of a small, sad smile on his lips. A replica was gifted to Belgium, where Bard was first sent, so long ago. Where he met Thranduil for the first time.

Perhaps this is why Thranduil has chosen this place.

Bard’s eyes meet the ground. He takes another deep breath and massages his leg, a constant, physical reminder of the war.

“How?” 

Bard starts. He looks up, finds Thranduil standing not far from him. The light of the lampposts and the moon combined make his hair shine like gold. Bard hadn’t heard him arrive. 

He’s ethereal.

But, God, he’s real, and he’s right there.

“How?” Thranduil repeats. His voice lacking the conviction it held the first time he asked. 

“I thought you died, and you thought I did, too,” Bard breathes. “That’s all I know.” He looks up. There aren’t enough words to express how sorry he is. How he would have turned back, looked for him, if he’d only believed Thranduil had made it. He’d already hated himself for leaving his body there.

Thranduil sighs, and closes his eyes. 

When he opens them again, his gaze doesn’t leave Bard; it trails over him, slowly, and Bard realizes that until now, Thranduil hasn’t had the time to fully look at him. He feels very much self aware, then—like Thranduil, he’s older, different, and crippled. It’s not bad, nothing he’s ashamed of, but he wonders what Thranduil is thinking and feeling. 

It’s strange. They have never known each other like this—Bard only knows Thranduil’s face stained with dirt, mud, sometimes blood, his hair so short Bard couldn’t run his fingers through it. His eyes, tired, inside which a weak flame burned; one it was Bard’s job to keep alive, just like it was Thranduil’s job to take care of his. 

They had only been young men with nothing and no one to come home to; Thranduil lived under the roof of a caring father, but a father who saw him destined to be married to someone he’d never met and in a career he didn’t want. And Bard—Bard had lost his family long ago. 

After so long, Thranduil could have been a stranger to him, just like he could have been to Thranduil. And yet, Thranduil might have changed, but a part of him is still the young man he’d once been; this much, Bard can tell. 

That is why Bard stands, Thranduil’s eyes following his every movement—there is much to learn again, much that has changed, but Bard knows Thranduil’s essence, knows what he can and cannot do. 

He stops a few feet away, puts his weight on his cane and looks at Thranduil. If Thranduil decides to get closer, he will take those steps. If he decides to turn away, Bard won’t be close enough to grab his wrist and tell him to stay—but Bard is certain he won’t have to. If Thranduil wanted them to meet here, it is not to run. 

“My son had told me he had a teacher insisting on being called by his name,” Thranduil says. “I thought it was very much like you. You were never much about titles.” He pauses to tuck a lock of hair behind his ear. “But I didn’t ask him what his teacher’s name was. We don’t talk much, Legolas and I. I thought I was an idiot for even thinking I might indeed hear the name I was so desperate to hear.”

“I—”

“I thought you were dead,” Thranduil cuts in. The words are sharp and sorrowful on his tongue. “I was so sure—I couldn’t shake the image out of my head.”

Unconsciously, it seems, Thranduil takes one step in Bard’s direction.

“Can you forgive me?”

“Thranduil.” Bard takes a step towards him as well, just one, despite himself. “There’s nothing to forgive.”

“Nothing to forgive?” Thranduil laughs, just a little. “When I woke up and heard the news, I didn’t even try to find a body. I could have. I could have asked my father, but I gave you up. Losing you, it was—” He makes a wave of his hand, and for a second his eyes get lost before snapping back to Bard. There’s a pain in his voice and his eyes that Bard knows well; one that cannot be spoken. “It hurt so much, I couldn’t even bear the thought of burying you.”

“I know,” Bard says. His voice quivered without him meaning it to. “God, I know. I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t have to say it, but he does anyway. For so long, he’s wanted to. 

It’s true, he knows. There’s something final about a grave, or a spot in the newspaper. That’s why Bard had never tried to find out what had become of Thranduil—at least he’d known his father would have taken care of everything. At least he hadn’t had to worry about that. 

Besides, he’d blamed himself too much to believe he had any right to be there—even to know.

They’re silent again. Bard doesn’t know what to say; there’s so much going through his head and yet, when he opens his mouth to speak, nothing comes. 

His eyes are brimming with tears with the weight of all his unspoken words. 

He wants to ask, _‘How have you been? How long have you lived here? Do you need to do or say anything? Do you want me to stay, do you want me to go? What have we done to deserve such a gift?’_

He wants to say, _‘I’ve loved you, I’ve grieved you, I’ve missed you—please stay, I want to hear it all. I want to know all that you’ve seen, I want to learn to know you again.’_

But all he does is stand and feel how weak his knees are, and how heavy his body is. 

Eventually Bard looks away, taking in a shaky breath and trying to keep tears from falling down his face, biting the inside of his cheek.

Out of the corner of his eye, he catches Thranduil getting closer. His steps are slow and measured, and he halts closer than Bard thought he would. 

Thranduil holds up his hand, slowly reaching out. Bard closes his eyes. He feels Thranduil stop halfway.

“Can I?” Thranduil asks in a murmur.

Bard nods. It’s more than an authorization; Bard _wants_ him to. 

Thranduil’s fingers brush the side of his face, like a feather would a rock. Bard shivers at the touch. They stop over the laughter lines at the corner of his eyes. 

“You’ve been happy.”

“Aye,” Bard says. “I am. Have you?”

“I have.”

“I’m glad, then.” Bard smiles, and as he opens his eyes again he sees Thranduil’s have turned softer.

Bard laughs, then. It’s not a big laugh; it’s small and light and fragile, almost nervous. 

To Bard’s delight, Thranduil smiles for the first time. It’s faint, but it’s there, and it warms Bard’s heart.

Without thinking about it, Bard lets his head rest on Thranduil’s shoulder, forehead against his neck and hands gripping his clothes. 

Just like that, Bard melts against him, and forgets the world. 

Bard can’t tell how long they stay like this. Perhaps it lasts only a few seconds, perhaps a few minutes, but either way it doesn’t matter; it is more than he’s ever dared to hope for. 

He doesn’t want Thranduil to leave.

But eventually, Thranduil says, “I need to go home.” He pauses, gently parts from Bard. “I’ll find you.” It sounds like a promise. Bard believes him, but he still wishes to go wherever Thranduil goes. 

But it’s just a wish; his children await him, and after a fleeting squeeze of Bard’s hand, Thranduil’s gone in the blink of an eye, anyway.

  


~•§•~  


> _We were running._
> 
> _And then, there was only me. I remember stopping, turning around and seeing him. Taking a step to join him, to get him out of there, bring him back. I remember him watching me, telling me not to be an idiot, that he’d find his way back to me._
> 
> _Then there was the noise, and I was screaming at him to lay down._
> 
> _He didn’t have time to. Neither did I._
> 
> _I was on the ground, and there was this terrible buzz in my ears, and for a moment I couldn’t see him. Until, from afar, I saw his face, ruined and burned, his hair stained with blood. His uniform was burning. He wasn’t moving._
> 
> _Someone was telling me that he was gone. I screamed his name, and they held me back. They told me nothing could be done, it had exploded too close to him, I was lucky I was alright, though I wasn’t. I wasn’t alright at all. I felt like the world was crumbling down around me, when I had thought I couldn’t fall farther down. They told me I needed to let go._
> 
> _I did. I thought that at least when he died, he must have thought I had died with him. I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to forgive myself for that. Surviving when he hadn’t._
> 
> _Our unit was decimated, that day. I was sent away._
> 
> _I did much to call Death to me, but she wouldn’t take me. Truth is I never tried hard enough—because, and I hated to admit it, even to myself, I wanted to live._
> 
> _God, I wanted to live._

  


~•§•~  


When Bard comes home, the lights are still on. Sigrid has fallen asleep on the couch, an open book over her chest.

He takes a blanket and puts it over her, before kissing her forehead and heading to the bathroom, then his own room. 

Bain is fast asleep on the bed near the door. Bard’s is bathing in the moonlight, a welcoming sight after such an emotion-heavy day. His thoughts are busier than ever, but this time they do not crush him—they’re almost comforting, full of hope, full of a quiet joy that he doesn’t know who to thank for.

There won’t be long to wait until he sees Thranduil again, Bard is sure of it. Just two or three nights more to process, to accept they _have_ found each other again, that it is no dream ready to turn into a nightmare, like it has so often been.

Until then, he can only wait, and let himself drift into sleep. 

Bard wakes up late the next morning. Rays of sunshine fall gently on his face, and he blinks in the light as he realizes it is much too bright outside for the time he should be up in order to walk the children to school. 

He gets out of bed in a rush, cursing under his breath, only to halt under the doorframe of the living room and remember that it is a public holiday; Bain and Tilda are playing on the couch, and Sigrid is drawing at the table. 

“No school today,” Sigrid says as form of greeting, not even looking up from her sheet of paper. 

In front of her is a plate, bread and butter and jam, and a glass of fresh orange juice. 

And fruits forming a happy face.

Bard turns on his feet to ruffle Bain and Tilda’s hair, knowing it is their doing. They protest, pushing away his hands as they exclaim he mustn’t distract them or else the bad guy will win their game. 

Sigrid adds nothing, but Bard hears her questions as if she’d spoken them.

“It went... well,” he says as he sits. There’s more, but he can’t find the words, or doesn’t know how to speak them. 

“He’s very beautiful, isn’t he?”

Bard’s eyes leave his plate to glare at her. Sigrid withstands it, something of a smirk on her lips.

“I don’t—” Bard tries before giving up, though he’s smiling. “Aye, he is.”

Sigrid laughs, until she gets her serious expression back and traces a few lines on the paper.

“What’s going to happen now?” The question is spoken gently; it is not a warning, nor a judgement. 

“There’s a lot to catch up on,” Bard says. “Lots of things to say.” He takes a sip of juice. “I don’t know what’s going to happen—but I think we both want to find out.”

“I do, too.” Sigrid grins, then. “I’m so happy for you, Da. You deserve it. All that’s been happening.”

Bard shakes his head. “I really don’t, darling.”

“You do!” Sigrid insists, throwing a cloth at his chest, which he catches before it can hit him. “You do.”

Bard shakes his head a second time, throwing the cloth back. It hits Sigrid’s face with little force before falling on her lap. 

Sigrid shrugs. She doesn’t insist, but she keeps an eyebrow raised at him as he stands to make himself a cup of coffee. When he comes back, she’s concentrated on her drawing, but the look she sends him as he sits again tells Bard she isn’t done with him yet. 

“I’d love to meet him,” she says, not looking up from her work. “I’m sure Bain and Tilda will want to, too.”

Bard’s eyes shift to his younger children. He’ll have to tell them someday; not everything, not yet, but enough to make them understand who Thranduil is and what he meant to him, long ago. What Thranduil means to him today. 

“Soon,” Bard says. He realizes he’s spoken too fast when Sigrid smiles, a knowing look on her face. “I hope.”

She hums, before going back to her business. 

Bard finds himself humming back, a song he doesn’t know the lyrics of. He’s eager to figure them out.

 

A few days later finds him in his classroom, empty of teenagers. Their creations are drying, displayed around the room. Bard’s sits with them, as though he is one of the students. He’s showed them how to do landscapes today, and he’s checking everyone’s works one last time, proud of the progress they’re making with each new class. 

Afterwards, Bard finishes his own painting, humming as he does so. He’s satisfied with the result. To the students, it will be nothing but a landscape of the countryside, but Bard’s eyes see something much different; he’s reimagined the dead, flat lands of the war, once again covered in grass and spring flowers. 

Bard puts his brush aside. 

The second his hands are free, there’s a knock on the door. Bard knows who it is without even needing to look; he heard the deep intake of breath that came with it. He turns on his heels, and can’t stop his lips from forming a smile. 

Thranduil stands in the doorway, his hair loose and the day’s newspaper in his hands. He seems wary; not like he’s unwelcomed, but like he’s entering unknown territory. 

“I was told I’d find you here,” he says, taking a long step inside. He looks around, and his eyes seem to immediately pick out Legolas’ painting. “Your daughter was less impressed by me than Legolas is by you.”

“She isn’t easily won over,” Bard says, laughter in his voice. He loves this; how fast things click back between them. How easy it feels—it isn’t, but the path is just clear enough, and they know every turn. “How’s Legolas?” 

“He’s alright,” Thranduil replies. His fingers trail over the blackboard, catching chalk. “He’s a bit intimidated by you, now. In a good way.”

Bard properly laughs this time, and it must sound like a song, for Thranduil is smiling, like he used to smile when he watched Bard sing to entertain their comrades. He rubs his fingers together, getting rid of the white powder. 

“There isn’t much to be intimidated by,” Bard says, shaking his head. He picks up his cane from where it is leaning against the desk, and walks up to Thranduil. 

Thranduil’s eyes follow his every movement, a somewhat light frown marking his forehead. Bard raises an inquiring eyebrow as he stops, just out of arm’s reach. 

“I meant to ask—” With a nod of his head, Thranduil finishes by gesturing to Bard’s leg. 

Bard’s eyes soften. He knows what Thranduil is wondering, just like he’s known the question would come. “It was weeks after we were—separated,” he says, carefully. “I don’t remember much, apart waking up in an infirmary and being told the war was over, and I would soon be sent home.” He pauses to rub his knee—or perhaps to avoid the strength of Thranduil’s gaze. “I wasn’t sure where home was.”

Bard looks up. In Thranduil’s eyes he sees nothing but understanding. 

“But you found it.”

“Aye.”

Thranduil gives a weak smile. It says, _‘I did, too.’_

They fall into silence; it isn’t uncomfortable, but it isn’t free of a strange, soft kind of heaviness, either. Bard leans against the nearest desk, his leg being tired after a long day of use. He waves the worry off of Thranduil’s eyes with half a smile. 

“So—what now?” Bard asks, gently.

“I don’t know,” Thranduil says, sighing. “I’m afraid.”

“Why are you afraid?”

“I don’t know. I’m not sure.”

Thranduil pauses, like he’s looking for the right words. Bard waits, and doesn’t mind; some things are not spoken so easily, and here in this classroom, it feels like time stands still. They lost a lot of it over the years—though can it really be said it’s been _lost?_ —but they have just as much time, if not much more, yet to spend. 

“I’m afraid of you,” Thranduil ends up saying. “I never dared to imagine any kind of future for us—I always—” Thranduil pauses, his lips quivering like he’s holding back emotion that is too much to be carried by words alone. “We were supposed to be dead, dead like so many others, but somehow we’re not in the end. We were never supposed to have this, and now that it’s here, I don’t know how to take it.”

“You’re here,” Bard finds himself saying. He leaves the stability of the desk to take one more step towards Thranduil, one hand gripping his cane tight, the other fighting not to reach out just yet. “This is you taking it.”

Thranduil lets out a shaky breath; an unusual sight, Bard can tell. Instinctively, Bard’s fingers find Thranduil’s, merely brushing them. Just the ghost of a touch. It’s strange, to feel Thranduil’s skin; the warmth, the softness of it. It’s a warmth that says, _‘I’m alive’_ , a softness that says, _‘I am good, and soft was my life as well, in the end.’_

“I’ve dreamed of finding you,” Thranduil breathes. “I’ve dreamed of never letting you go ever again.”

Slowly, he takes Bard’s hand, and turns it in his own. Two of his fingers linger over Bard’s palm, the touch so light Bard can barely feel it, but he does. He does feel it. 

It’s like a spark, a flame that doesn’t burn. 

There is no telling what lies ahead.

But as Thranduil lifts Bard’s hand and brings it up to his lips, Bard thinks that perhaps, a part of them knows; it’s a gentle thing, that kiss. It says more than either of them can speak aloud. It’s a silent vow, a promise that cannot be broken. 

A nod of respect to what was found and lost behind.

  


~•§•~  


> _I never thought I’d write in this journal again. It wasn’t a story that was meant to be continued. It had a start, and an end, and all the pain and the grief that came with it were soothed, just a bit, by being written down. But they never left, and I learned to live with them. I’d made my life with a wonderful woman and wonderful children, and I was happier than I’d ever thought I’d be. Even when Mira passed away, I thought there was nothing more about Thranduil that I had to say._
> 
> _Yet, today, I feel like my children and I have a chance at this kind of happiness again._
> 
> _Today, I sat at my desk, and, like all those years ago, picked up a pen._

**Author's Note:**

> Here are the links to the art again: [[x](http://homeiswheretheheartsare.tumblr.com/post/161728423340/hobbit-big-bang-art-for-evanslukes-what-was)] and [[x](https://shipsicle.tumblr.com/post/161631791280/hobbit-big-bang-art-for-barduil-evanslukes)]
> 
> Note: the school is 100% made up, I have no idea whether or not options were a thing back then, particularly art ones outside of art schools? but I really wanted things to go like that, so I kept it that way even though it might not be historically accurate. Also, I did my research about WWI on top of what I already knew, but asked someone who had deep knowledge of it for information since I wanted the story to be as historically accurate as possible (it's not free of potential little mistakes though, sorry about that ;w;) so, many thanks to them for their help as well!
> 
> This story is also a sort of 'goodbye' to Barduil fanfiction? Of course I'll keep writing for this pairing - I started everything with them, so they're very special to me. Besides, I have to (and I will) finish Forgotten Roads! - but I'm probably done with one-shots like this one (10k+ words) and long fics. I'd really like to write more original stories, so I have to slow down my fanfiction writing! :) 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! Please, please leave a comment if you enjoyed it, it would mean the world after so much hard work, both from me and the artists! Even a word or two would be very much appreciated!! <3
> 
> If you liked this story, maybe you'll like my previous Big Bang story, [Somewhere Only We Know](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6882721)!
> 
> [Here's the fic's aesthetic](http://barduil.tumblr.com/post/162277815838/what-was-found-and-lost-behind-bardthranduil) if you want to share it :D
> 
> Find me on Tumblr @ [evansluke](http://evansluke.tumblr.com) or [barduil](http://barduil.tumblr.com) ~ Feel free to message me questions or talk to me about my stories! :D


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